Junichi's Brain Poop
by Junichiblue
Summary: A very small collection of one shots, segments, ideas, and beginnings of stories I've played with. A place to put things lest they rust away on my computer and never see the light of day. Grimmichi's. Every. One.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: Ichigo, a normal high schooler, meets Grimmjow, a man only a few years older, living a very different life. Gambling, clubs, sex. And Grimmjow's ways are catching up with him.**

**After weeks of a strange relationship and unexpected visits by the bluenet, the worst happens. The scene is in an alley, and Grimmjow has been shot.**

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><p>Stop. Calm down, breathe, and think. Think... Not working. Okay, just breathe. Breathe. Breathe.<p>

**X X X**

"You wanna live, kid? Leave. Now."

Ichigo stepped back. He risked another glance at the bluenet, now lying motionless in a slowly spreading, wet pool of blood. His eyes were closed and his features for the first time ever, completely lax. Expressionless. Lifeless.

He was too stunned to react. Ichigo's mind couldn't comprehend how they had gotten from there to here in such a short space of time. One second they were just talking and the next... the next... Grimmjow was flat out on the ground.

"G'wan. Git." The metallic clack of a trigger being cocked cut through Ichigo's near paralysis, making his heart beat wildly. The gun was lofted up to point at the centre of Ichigo's chest, and Ichigo's already thundering heart scampered in ten different directions at once. His legs and arms were shaking from adrenaline. Fight or flight. He was doing neither and his body didn't know what the fuck to do with all the extra fuel. His brain finally took it upon itself to move Ichigo's limbs, because Ichigo, for all the ever-loving world, did NOT want to leave Grimmjow like this. Could not.

Dying. Or dead already. He didn't know. And if he left, he might never know.

"Last chance kid. Ain't gonna tell ya 'gain. Beat it."

Ichigo had no choice. The man he'd spent the last and most fucked up three weeks of his life getting to know was either dead or about to die. And there wasn't a goddamn thing Ichigo could do about it. If Grimmjow was the man Ichigo had come to think he was, he would undoubtedly be yelling at Ichigo to get his stupid ass out of here right now or he'd beat it into the ground. Yeah. That's exactly what Grim would have said.

Ichigo turned away. The hardest thing he'd ever had to do in his life. He started walking, then running, feet numb inside his shoes, not registering the splash of water as his foot hit a small puddle that was left in a depressed section of rough cement. There were several shallow puddles in the alleyway. They were leftover from last night's rain, taking much longer to dry up where the sun didn't reach. This was a place where the sun couldn't reach, this world. And it was Grimmjow's world, not Ichigo's. And it was where Grimmjow's reckless, wild, savage, and ferociously lived life would finally come to an inhumane end.

Ichigo stumbled as his foot hit a sodden plastic bag and lost its traction, slipping on the wet plastic. He caught himself on the edge of falling, and instead kept going, leaving the discarded wet bag behind him, much like the man he'd just abandoned.

Ichigo hooked his fingers into the corner stone at the end of the alley and swung around the corner. He staggered to a stop, every nerve in his body pulled so tight he thought he would snap into shards under the pressure. he should have just kept going, but he was waiting for the sound. The end of it all. He knew at least how these things worked in the movies. The bad guy always makes sure that the good guy is really dead. Does the job. Professional. Impersonal. Cold. But that was the movies, and this was re...

_Pop. Pop._

Ichigo jerked as two shots rang out in quick succession.

And everything stopped.

His mind. His heart. His breathing.

The muscles in his legs and stomach crumbled to dust, and he fell to his knees, vision beginning to blur, eyes peeled wide open, more open than they had ever been in his entire life. He leaned forward on his hands and felt a wash of nausea roil through his insides a split second before his stomach began in earnest to turn itself inside out. The rice, and fish and vegetables that Ichigo had eaten for lunch, the food he had shared with Grimmjow, all came back up.

Ichigo heaved until nothing was left, and he wretched painfully, huddled over sacs of garbage, adding to the wretched smell of decay and filth, the used up remnants of people's lives.

Tears streamed down his face, but not one of them was for himself.

The alley had gone quiet again, but the sound echoed in his head in a continuous loop. Ichigo pushed his rebellious body up against the brick wall, sucking in lung-fulls of air, and scrubbed the bile off of his chin with the back of his sleeve in one angry swipe.

And then he ran. He ran as fast as his legs would let him, bursting out of the maze of alleyways, out onto the street, across it, blindly, to the tune of car horns and curses. It was incredible that he didn't get hit. He ran so fast and so hard that he thought his heart would come crashing through his ribcage and his lungs would never fill with air again. Like Grimmjow's. He wanted to stop running, he needed to, but he couldn't. He hoped that he would finally trip and that when he crashed to the ground he would just wake up and find himself on his bedroom floor. Just a nightmare. Just a dream. And just who the fuck was he kidding? This was real. Not a dream. Not a joke. And not something he could take back. This had really fucking happened.

Almost as fast as that walking disaster, that path of destruction, known as Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, had come spilling into Ichigo's life, he was ripped away from it.

And the blue haired bastard had taken the largest piece of Ichigo with him.

**X X X**

Grimmjow had angrily lectured him on his situational awareness several times already. Grimmjow was always alert and he seemed to know exactly who was around him at all times. In a room full of thirty people, he could describe over half of them in great detail, and the rest in enough detail to render an artists sketch. Even in the moments when he carried himself with a look of lazy dis-concern, he was in tune with his environment, a natural part of it, like a big predatory cat in a dense jungle. It was an act. Plain and simple. But Grimmjow had been completely distracted this time around, all of his senses honed in on Ichigo, and the sword of Damocles which had always been dangling above his head had suddenly come crashing down. Now he was dead. And it was Ichigo's fault.

**X X X**

To Ichigo it had looked like a direct hit. The way Grimmjow had spun from the force of the slug. The way he had dropped like a stone and lay still as death itself. A head shot. Clean. Deadly. But the bullet had (only) skimmed it's way across the side of Grimmjow's head, slicing away a line of blue hair above his ear, and tearing away the skin against his skull. And head wounds. Well they bled like a sonofabitch.

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><p><strong>So that was that idea. Never did anything more than that, but it was a fun writing exercise at the time.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**This, like some of my stuff, came from a dream. There is another scene or two to it. I don't know where this was going to go exactly. It is purely serious. And the other scene I remember involved Urahara and Ichigo, and put them in a very uncomfortable situation. I'd like to finish this one sometime, and it would only be at most three fast paced chapters. Just not right now.**

**Juni**

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><p><strong>BROKEN<strong>

A thousand razor edged knives tore through his skin like it was brittle paper. A million volts of current screamed white hot and burning through his veins. As his insides were being torn apart, they were melting together, his muscles fusing into tight knots of excruciating pain.

He was being tested, tormented, murdered, over and over again. Dying once, sometimes twice, a day.

He had thought he'd died somewhere on the quiet empty plains of Hueco Mundo. In fact, he was sure of it. He'd been attacked by one of his own comrades. Dismissed. Cut up and left to linger between the life that he knew and the next one, whatever it was going to be.

But he hadn't reached the next.

At first he thought he had. Because it had to be hell, this place, this space.

But he was beginning to realize that he'd been hijacked, snatched from where he lay, bleeding and choking on his own blood, waiting like the fallen soldier that he was, to drown in it.

He had been suffering as he lay dying. But he was not afraid of pain. It was his own defeat that he couldn't face, couldn't escape, his only hope, the release of death when it finally found him.

But it never came.

Instead the sands had pulled him down, swallowed him hungrily, dragged him under and away from the false sun and laughable sky. At first that was good. He didn't feel like he was dying in his own home under that foreign blue. But the dragging continued, sucking him deeper into suffocating darkness and pressure.

If it was good, then he was supposed to come out of the other side of something, wasn't he?

It was claustrophobic and terrifying, not a sweet release at all. And he'd tried to fight and kick and claw his way out of it. He could feel every single fucking grain of sand that scraped across his skin. Each and every sharp edged fragment of stone forced its way inside, cutting and biting, opening him up, dragging right through him as they slowly tore him apart and pulled him relentlessly into hell.

**X X X**

The constant drug induced fits, the seizures, the paranoia... they were the norm now.

The limited freedom he'd once had to roam great white halls, to move across endless plains of sands, to converse at a distance with others of his kind, to flex his muscles and draw his power and test his strength against his enemies... that was all gone, replaced with these abysmal conditions, a disgusting situation he could no longer understand.

How he had ended up here was a sick joke. He had been free. Free to fight, to make his own decisions, to unleash his power. The overseer wasn't coming back, and Grimmjow had enjoyed himself to the fullest, for as long as it had lasted.

There was no freedom here, only bars and a floor, needles and gasses he couldn't escape. There was nothing to fight against, nothing left of him to want to.

He only struggled to keep breathing now, and to hang on to the last vestiges of sanity that he had left. The cocktails burned his veins like napalm and always, always sent him spinning violently into oblivion, screaming in agony, until his throat gave out, until he didn't know up from down, where the experiments ended and he began.

He'd asked once, when he still could speak, could reason out thoughts in his head... How long? How long would this continue?

Two months had passed, they'd said. And they had no intentions of stopping. He was full of too many promises. A wonderful test subject and an interesting specimen. Property. Nothing more than that.

Property.

Somebody else's property. Not even belonging to himself.

And he didn't care. Couldn't.

There was already nothing left of him that he recognized. If there was a mirror around for him to see himself, he knew the thing he saw staring back would not be him.

The only things that shined and reflected enough to give him brief glimpses of skin and eyes, were the sames things he had learned to shut his eyes against.

Sharp, cutting steel. Tiny blades that opened him up and cut so clean, that nerve endings screamed like raw fire.

He never used to hide from pain, but now he always flinched away. He wanted to die, curl up into a tight ball, and give up. Just stop fucking breathing.

It used to be... that he wouldn't go down.

It didn't mean he didn't fall from time to time. But no matter what, he would never allow himself to stay down. But he just wanted his miserable existence to end. He could be reborn somewhere else, with no memories of this nightmare. Even if he broke apart into a thousand souls and lost himself, that would be acceptable, because he was already lost. He was being pulled apart, separated, driven into pieces inside himself, his mind systematically shutting down.

He had always been physically powerful, and even stronger willed, expressing his emotions freely and without remorse. Nothing but contempt for the world and its weaknesses.

He didn't know who he was anymore. He had been powerful. He was great. He'd had name once. A place. He was... not even a whisper of a name would come to him now... something...

He was...

was...

broken.


End file.
